I don’t look forward to bedtime. I’ve been lying awake all night and have to take sleeping pills to get any sleep. I cannot hide in the dark. My dreams are confronting and disturbing, and emotions bubble to the surface. I am losing weight, and while this is what I wanted, it comes at a severe price physically. Last night I was thinking about all this and it was as though a tsunami hit me. A few tears even escaped my rein, which is rare for me. It did not do justice to the enormous emotions that clawed at my insides, unable to find expression. Even as I write this post I’m struggling to find the words to describe the distress I felt last night. I hated what I am doing to myself. I thought about all the consequences of this, such as getting hairy, organ damage, getting terribly sick if I get covid, and even death (though I’m not too worried about the latter as I’m not crash hot being here anyway). Some people are never the same even when their weight is restored. I want to stop, but I fear I’m in too deep. It feels good to step on the scales and see my weight go down, almost addictive. I have already lost a few kilos, and while I try to tell myself that my weight is good now, that it’s fine, that I am skinny enough, that I can fit into my favourite skirt again, this thing in me is greedy. It wants to lose more and more. It’s trying to prove a point. At the rate I’m going in two and half months I will be back down to my lowest weight ever, the weight that had everyone concerned. I even cringe when I look at photos of myself from back then. It feels like I’m watching a car crash in slow motion. I can see the impending doom, I know there’s going to be pain and suffering, but I’m stuck in the car. I feel like there’s not much I can do to stop it. This thing is a desperate, last-ditch attempt to deal with my situation which I feel I have absolutely no control over. Getting my weight down makes me feel like I can elicit some kind of change in my life. I feel both in control and out of control at the very same time. I feel possessed (and there is a great song here about how it feels to have an eating disorder constantly speaking to you). A part of me wants to make mental health workers worry. I want them to do something. I have suffered enough. It shouldn’t have to take an eating disorder for them to not let me walk out the door and suffer another week alone. I want to be put in hospital, but I also don’t want anyone to stop me. I will continue this even in hospital. I don’t want to be force fed. Honestly I don’t know what I want from people. I feel completely torn up right now. I wish I could enjoy my food again without feeling like a failure and like I have to make up for it with exercise and more restricting.
I saw my psychologist today. She keeps telling me people are bandaids, that I need to stop looking for solutions outside of myself, whether that’s people or even medication. I feel my blood boil whenever therapists say this. I find it incredibly airy fairy. It’s like being told we don’t need water or food or air, we should just be self-sufficient. The fact is that we are human and there are things outside of us that we need to survive. Love, care and connection are some of those things. I don’t like when somebody who has not lived the life I’ve lived of deprivation, isolation, emotional neglect and abuse tells me that I need to heal all by myself. I especially don’t like people who have partners and a good support network telling me this. She told me she felt angry when my GP referred me to a community mental health service and told me I will be taken care of there. My psychologist told me I’m an adult, not a kid, and I should take care of myself. She said it’s not reasonable to want other people to take care of you. I don’t know why I got teary but I did. Is it such a big ask to be cared for, like other people have had the privilege of? I told her I am unwell so I should be taken care of. I am not demanding. I actually push people away and I don’t ask for help from friends or family. But yes, there is a part of me deep down who does long to be taken care of, and she looks for that in mental health professionals. Today was a really difficult session, and I got triggered back into my core belief that no one cares. My psychologist has admitted before that she feels like a mother to me but knows that is not helpful. I know she would never overstep the therapeutic boundaries (she even blocked me on Facebook when she found out I had found her profile), yet I have always secretly revelled in the fantasy of her being more than a therapist to me. At the end of today’s session I returned Ginny, the crochet otter she lent me when she took leave so I could feel connected to her still. I grew attached to Ginny and have hung onto her for much longer. I always kept her beside me in bed and she has been of great comfort to me. When I finally returned her today I suddenly started crying uncontrollably. I can’t remember the last time I cried like this. I was half crying, half laughing. I know I can always borrow Ginny again, but it still felt like such a huge loss. My parents loved Ginny and knew how important she was to me. I knew it would be hard returning her but I didn’t expect to get THIS emotional. It probably wasn’t just about Ginny, but also about the end of the fantasy I had about my psychologist, about my eating disorder, about everything. In the middle of crying I got up abruptly and told my psychologist I was going to leave now. I left quickly and while crying. I think the receptionist may have said goodbye to me but I was too distraught to say anything back. I got in my car and immediately left. I guess I realise how alone I am in the world. I don’t know if I want to see my psychologist again next week.